


Flight of the Eagle

by Moondreamer



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AltMal is main relationship, Altair learns about modern assassins, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, M/M, Modern assassins AU, this is after all an AC fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moondreamer/pseuds/Moondreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair has lived a pretty normal life up until now : working as a falconer at the airport by day, moonlighting as a bouncer and sometime bartender. That is, until he stumbles upon a wounded man at work one day and helps him escape those looking for him. From the start Malik is an enigma, and because of him Altair is drawn into a war he didn't know existed and discovers secrets that could well get him killed. The choices he will make will decide his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we are with the start of Flight of the Eagle. I have no idea where this is going yet, and no idea how long it'll be :P I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Music while I write this : Living on the Edge, Aerosmith

Altair Ibn’ La-Ahad worked as a bird handler by day. It was a job he’d fallen into pretty much by accident in his late teens—as part of his mandated community service for a minor crime, he’d had to volunteer at a bird rescue center, and had kept doing so since then—and it suited his personality just fine. After all, the birds of prey he worked with didn’t feel the need to chat idly or pry into his private life. And then he liked seeing them glide in the wind, barely extending any energy to keep themselves in the air. Altair sometimes envied them their ability to fly; even after ten years of working with them, these birds still fascinated him.

It was luck, really, that he could work with them and get paid for it. From an hour before dawn to the end of his shift after lunch, he patrolled the grounds at the Montreal Trudeau International Airport, scaring away birds from the path of airplanes. His favorite companion during those patrols was a golden eagle called Ivan, which Altair had trained from birth himself.

They formed a good team, Ivan and him.

Altair looked up, watching Ivan circle high above his head, and frowned at the gathering dark gray clouds in the sky. It would be raining before long, he thought with a sigh. Fortunately, his shift was almost over and soon a colleague would be replacing him. Time to head back to the aviary and get Ivan settled down.

He whistled and the eagle changed its course to plummet toward him. He raised his gloved hand and waited for Ivan to land on his fist. The bird weighed nearly as much as a human baby, and this fact always managed to catch Altair by surprise at first.

The bird settled down and began to groom its feathers, and Altair caught its lead between two gloved fingers. He took the eagle’s hood from his pocket and fitted it over the bird’s head as he returned to the sanctuary's car he used for his patrols.

Sound to his right caught his attention. A private plane had landed on the closest tarmac and a group of people was gathering beside it. Altair had no idea what they were discussing, but whatever it was, they sounded animated. Angry even.

He shrugged. None of his business. Even if some of them, when he looked their way, were red.

Now, that was one thing Altair never talked about with anyone. The colors he saw. Well, they weren’t actually colors, but it was the closest thing he’d come up with to explain the phenomenon. People… radiated, and their color changed depending on their level of danger. Red for aggressive. Blue for friendly. White for indifferent. Most people were white, but those men around the plane were red.

His ability, if you could call it that, wasn’t always reliable and it came and went depending on his moods. But this time there was no mistaking it. Those people, for some reason, were dangerously agressive.

Nothing to do with him, Altair told himself firmly. He slipped into his car, letting Ivan perch on the passenger seat beside him. Still, he couldn’t help but glance back one last time as he drove away. He had a bad feeling about those men that went beyond the angry red surrounding them.

“You’re imagining things,” he muttered, and snorted when Ivan squawked in response to his voice as though agreeing with him.

Five minutes later, Altair parked the car in front of the airport’s small aviary and killed the engine. He hid a yawn behind his hand and coaxed Ivan back on his fist so he could get the bird and himself inside before the downpour. Fat raindrops had begun dotting the car’s windshield and the wind had picked up, tugging at his hoodie and cargo pants.

Altair opened the door and took a step inside before instinct made him freeze. He wasn’t alone in the aviary. Nonetheless, he took the time to put Ivan down on his usual perch before raking the small, shadowed room with his gaze. He noticed the man hiding behind the falcon’s cage too late. In a blur of movement, he was on Altair, forcing him back against the wall with one arm across his throat. 

“Not a sound,” the stranger hissed. He was dressed all in black, black slacks, black t-shirt, and black windbreaker. A blade glinted in the hand he wasn't holding at Altair’s throat, although he made no move to threaten Altair with it.

Also, he was blue. The stranger was the brightest blue Altair had ever seen. That made no sense, seeing as he was right now in the middle of assaulting Altair.

The birds around them squawked and ruffled their feathers nervously. “You’re scaring my birds,” Altair said in irritation.

The arm on Altair’s throat pushed his head harder back into the wall, cutting his hair supply down to a trickle. “I said quiet,” the stranger repeated, threatening. His accent sounded foreign, and Altair guessed arabic was the man’s first language.

His color never changed. He was still blue despite his implied threat.

Altair grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it away from his neck, then pushed him back. It took his assailant by surprise, as the man hissed in pain and stumbled back. Altair stared at the sticky wetness going down the man’s left shoulder and arm and dripping on the dirt floor. Blood, Altair realized with a start. The man was badly hurt. 

“Who are you?” Altair blurted, and then, “You’re hurt.”

For the longest moment, the man said nothing, simply glaring at Altair in silence. But he was swaying on his feet, the loss of blood taking its toll. His brown skin had taken a grayish tint that didn’t look healthy.

“Sit down before you pass out,” Altair said into the heavy silence. 

He moved to the back of the room, the stranger’s eyes following his every move, and grabbed the aviary’s single chair—a stool, really. He returned with it and put it down in front of the man, who hadn’t moved a muscle. 

“Sit down,” he said again, uncertain why he was even trying to help. Logically, he should be calling the police at this point. Why wasn’t he? He couldn't explain it to himself, apart from the fact he somehow knew the stranger represented no danger to him.

The man sat down with a grunt of pain, and they stared at each other warily. Altair hesitated, then asked, “Do you have a name?” 

“...Malik.” 

“What happened?”

This time, the man’s hesitation lasted longer. “Shot,” he finally offered.

A series of hypotheses crossed Altair’s mind. Was the man an illegal immigrant trying to get to one of the planes? He seemed too well dressed for it. A terrorist? And yet he wasn’t red. Altair was pretty sure a terrorist would be red. Drug smuggler? Trespasser? None of these answer satisfied him.

No matter, he had a bigger problem right this moment. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

Altair bent to get his cellphone from the messenger bag he always stashed close to the door, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him away. Malik had gotten back to his feet, and was glowering at him. “No,” he growled. He wobbled and had to sit back down. “No ambulance.”

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” Altair said, pointing to the obvious. “You need a doctor.”

Again, there was heavy silence before Malik answered. “Doctor… yes. But no ambulance. They cannot know I am here. I know a doctor. I just need to contact them first.”

As Altair watched, half-worried half-puzzled, Malik reached for his ear, then his upper back. He cursed when he couldn’t find whatever he was looking for. An earpiece, was Altair’s guess.

Who was this man?

He still thought Malik needed an ambulance, but he could see that Malik wouldn’t let him call one. Muttering to himself about stupid decisions, Altair moved to the back of the room to get the aviary’s first aid kit. He hadn’t taken two steps when he felt movement behind him, and he froze. He didn’t need to look back to know Malik had gotten to his feet again.

“Sit down. I’m just getting the first aid kit. If I can’t call you an ambulance, I need another way to stanch the blood before you pass out on me.”

Malik grunted, but didn’t say anything else.

Altair shook his head. Malik acted twitchier than a wild falcon with a broken wing. He grabbed the medical kit and returned to Malik’s side, saying. “See. First aid kit. Bird talons are quite sharp, so we always keep gauze and bandages close at hand.” He spoke to Malik like he would to a wounded bird, calm and steady. 

“Alright,” Malik replied with a sigh. Then, grudgingly, “I need to use your phone.”

Altair hesitated for a heartbeat or two. If he let Malik use his phone, who would he call? He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of whatever had gotten the man shot. But allowing Malik to call backup might get him off Altair’s hands, and he could return to his usual routine.

“Let me take a look at your arm, then I’ll loan you my cell.”

This time, Malik’s grunt almost sounded like a laugh. 

“What?” Altair frowned at Malik.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to bargain with the strange wounded man who attacked you.” Malik sounded amused.

Altair shrugged. “You’re bleeding on the floor and stressing my birds out,” he replied defensively. “I want you out of my aviary without me having to carry you because you’re unconscious. You look heavy.”

He put the kit down beside him and gave Malik’s blood-soaked windbreaker a dubious look. “Can you take it off? Else, I’ll have to cut the sleeve.”

“No cutting.” 

With painful slowness, Malik peeled the coat away from his shoulders, being very careful not to jostle his left arm. He let it hit the floor with a wet plop, and Malik cursed between gritted teeth. Altair, though, had stopped paying attention to the coat, his gaze focused on the tight leather contraption strapped on Malik’s forearm. A thin blade was attached to the underside of it, and that blade was for now extended along the man’s hand. Altair had never seen anything even close to it outside of video games.

What kind of game did Malik think he was playing?

Possibly feeling Altair’s gaze on his weapon, Malik reached with his good hand, and touched something on his wrist. The blade quietly slid back into its sheath. Malik glared at Altair, as though daring him to ask about it.

Altair tried to convinced himself he really didn’t want to know, although questions burned his tongue. Better not to get involved any more than he already was.

He opened the first aid kit and grabbed all the gauzes he could find, along with bandages and antiseptics. It wouldn’t be enough. Malik was bleeding a lot, and now that he’d taken out his coat, Altair could see how badly mangled his shoulder looked. 

“Stop staring and get to work,” Malik grumbled.

“I’m not a doctor.” Altair looked at the gauzes in his hand dubiously. “But I’ll do what I can.”

“Just do it.”

“Right.”

Altair did his best to apply pressure to the wounds—it seemed Malik had been hit at least twice that he could see—despite Malik’s curses and hisses of pain. He ended up throwing away the first several gauzes after they soaked with blood in the first few seconds, and using the rest of them to pad both side of Malik’s shoulders. He then bandaged everything. He remembered taking a first aid class once that said to immobilize a wounded arm or leg, and so he did, using the bandages and a sling he found in the kit to do so.

“Here, all done. That’s the best I could do with what I have.”

“Hmph.”

Altair shrugged and went to wash the blood off his hands in the aviary’s sink. He was almost done when a series of impatient knocks broke the silence, loud as gunshot. Altair froze and stared at the door. Malik hissed, “No one can know I’m here.”

That would be hard to do considering the aviary was small, the single exit was blocked by whoever stood outside, and Malik’s blood was all over the floor.

A second series of knocks, more aggressive than the first, rattled the door. On the other side, Altair heard at least two men discuss in low voices. Quickly, he looked around the room, trying to come up with a brilliant idea. His eyes fell on Ivan. “This might just work,” he muttered, then turned to Malik. “Stay out of sight, I’ll take care of it.”

Malik gave him what had to be the world’s most suspicious glare, but he moved out of sight of the door, to the spot behind the falcon’s cage where he’d been hiding when Altair arrived. Altair grabbed his falconer’s glove, put it on, and then grabbed Ivan from his perch. The eagle squawked in protest at the rough handling and tried to peck at his hand. For once, Altair didn’t mind having the eagle unnerved, as it would serve his purpose.

“Open that door,” a man yelled from outside. “We know you’re in there.” 

“I’m coming! Stop pounding on the door, you’re scaring my birds,” Altair called back in his grumpiest voice.

He took Ivan’s hood off, annoying the eagle further, and opened door just as it flapped its wing, trying to lunge off his hand. Altair was holding the lead tighty, though, and the eagle got nowhere.

“What?” he snapped as he closed the door behind him.

He faced two men dressed as airport security. One was an indifferent white, but the second… Just like the men around the plane earlier, the second man was a threatening red.

His tightening grip on the lead had Ivan flapping his wing again, and the sight of the eagle made the two men take a wary step back. Just as Altair hoped it would.

“What does airport security want with me?” he continued. “My badge is still up to date.”

The white man talked first. “We’re looking for an armed man on the run. We think he might be wounded. He attempted to kill a passenger and is considered extremely dangerous.”

Altair did his best to look both surprised and worried. “Armed man? How hasn’t airport security stopped him yet?”

Red spat, “It’s what we’re doing, wise guy. Now, let us inside.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I let the falcons out of their cage to clean and they’re aggressive toward strangers. Your pounding hasn’t helped and now they’re agitated.”

Unseen by his two interlocutors, he tapped Ivan tail feathers with the tip of one finger, and the eagle squawked and stretched its wings in annoyance.

“It’s… not dangerous, is it?” white asked, nervous.

“Ivan’s an eagle. What do you think?” Altair glared at the two men.

Red took a step forward, menacing, and Altair’s heart started speeding up. He simply couldn’t let the men step inside the aviary and see the blood on the floor. Why he was trying so hard to hide Malik’s presence, he didn’t know. He only knew that red was dangerous, and he couldn’t be allowed to get his hands on Malik.

“The aviary’s small,” he snapped, trying to sound irritated instead of anxious. “Don’t you think I’d know if someone was hiding inside?”

He held red’s glare as Ivan continued squawking and ruffling its feather nervously. “Now, I need to get back inside before Ivan decides to start biting. If you’ll excuse me.”

White sounded more relieved than annoyed when he said, “If you see anything suspicious, call security.” Ivan had made quite an impression on him, it would seem.

“Of course,” Altair replied smoothly.

Red gave Altair another suspicious scowl, but white shook his head and pointed back at the tarmac and the private plane still stopped there. “Let’s go,” he said. Red followed him, grudgingly it appeared, but he left nonetheless. Altair waited until they were out of earshot to sigh in relief.

“Well, Ivan, let’s get you back inside,” he told the eagle. 

Ivan squawked and lunged for Altair’s unprotected hand. Although Altair tried to avoid it, the eagle’s beak left a bloody gash on top of his forearm.

“ _Merde_ ,” he cursed in french, but he’d deliberately riled up the eagle, so it was only payback that Ivan would let him know he hadn’t appreciated it. “I guess I deserved that,” Altair muttered.

And now, of course, he was out of gauze to take care of the wound. He sighed. It figured.

He slid the hood back on Ivan’s head very carefully, before walking back into the aviary. He made sure to close the door behind him as soon as he stepped inside.

The first thing Altair saw once his eyes adjusted for the relative darkness inside was Malik with Altair’s messenger bag at his feet and talking on his cellphone in a low voice.

Altair caught only a few words of the conversation, and those few words didn’t tell him much. “Right. I’ll make it,” Malik was saying, and then, “Time to go,” when he saw Altair. He ended the call and dropped Altair’s cell in his bag.

“I see you found my cellphone,” Altair said tartly.

Malik shrugged his one good shoulder. 

“What was this about? Who _are_ those guys?”

“Airport security?” 

Altair glared at Malik. That’s not what he meant, and they both knew it. Malik was being obtuse. “Not just airport security. There is more to it.” 

Malik’s gaze sharpened at this, although he said nothing. Altair began to fidget. He’d said too much, and he couldn’t explain why he knew without sounding completely insane. To hide his sudden discomfort, he busied himself settling Ivan down on his perch and making sure the eagle would be alright for the rest of the day. 

Still he couldn’t let it go. He needed answers from Malik. Needed to know that hiding him was the right thing to do. “Does it have anything to do with that private plane and the people there?” 

After a moment, Malik shook his head. “I can’t answer this. The less you know, the safer you are, believe me.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

__“But it’s the only one you’ll get.”_ _

__Altair ground his teeth not to curse and bit out, “I feel like I should know why I’m risking my job here. Hell, why I’m risking being arrested by the police for protecting a criminal on the run.”_ _

__“I’m not a criminal,” Malik replied, stung._ _

__“Then, what are you? That… hidden blade thing on your arm—” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it outside of that video game series…”_ _

__He was irritated with himself. What was he trying to imply? That Malik took himself for a video game character, which would make Malik’s grip on reality more than a little shaky. Or that, somehow, the video game was real, which would bode badly for Altair’s sanity._ _

__Neither hypothesis sat well with him._ _

__“We hide in plain sight,” Malik said, breaking the silence._ _

__“Huh?”_ _

__“How better to hide in plain sight than make your own people such a part of pop culture than no one would take rumors of your existence seriously?”_ _

__Altair stared at Malik, and Malik held his gaze, his expression giving nothing. He had to be kidding, Altair thought, just as Malik concluded, “Or maybe I’m just an insane criminal.” He smirked._ _

__“That isn’t helping.”_ _

__“It wasn’t supposed to.” Malik grunted when he got back to his feet. “Now, I need your help again.”_ _

__“What do you need?”_ _

__“I need you to drive me out of the airport’s grounds. You’re an employee here, which mean you can come in and out.”_ _

__Altair bit his lower lip, thinking fast. “There’s no way I can get you out. If they’re searching for you, the police will have closed all the exits by now.”_ _

__Malik barked a laugh. “I very much doubt the police has been called. They won’t want the authorities involved.”_ _

__“They? Who are they?”_ _

__“Again, I can’t answer that.”_ _

__Altair threw his hands up in the air. “Fine,” he snapped. “I just hope I don’t get in trouble for this.”_ _

__“Get me out of here, and your involvement with me will end.”_ _

__If Malik said so. Altair moved to the aviary’s little window and looked out. He half-expected those two airport security agent to be observing it from afar, but he saw no one._ _

__“The way’s clear. I’ll pull the car around.”_ _

__Malik opened his mouth, possibly to protest Altair’s order, and Altair glared at him. “You’re as conspicuous as a bloody nose. Stay inside for now. If I’d wanted to sell you out, I would have simply let those two guards search the aviary.”_ _

__Malik glowered back at him, but Altair didn’t care. At this point, all he wanted was to get the wounded man away from the airport and out of his hair. Not waiting for Malik’s approval, he left the aviary. He stopped by the bird sanctuary’s car to grab the big canvas sheet that was always kept in the back seat. It wasn’t much of a cover, but it would have to do. His own hatchback didn’t even have a trunk where Malik could hide._ _

__He hurried to his car and and drove it around to the aviary’s door. He parked as close as he could. Before he could get out and get Malik from inside, the man walked out the door and, hunched over so the small car would offer cover, he opened the passenger door and slipped in the back. He didn’t need Altair to give him instructions to know what to do with the sheet. He knelt between the seats and pulled it over his head. It made for an unwieldy bulge, but was too visible, especially since Altair’s backseat was already full of knickknacks._ _

__The drive was spent in tense silence, punctuated only by the sound of droplets rain falling and the occasional swipe of the wipers._ _

__“We’re arriving at the gate,” Altair said after a few minutes._ _

__Malik made no sound other than a small grunt. Realizing he was clutching the wheel so tightly his knuckles had bleached, Altair tried to relax his posture somewhat. True to Malik’s prediction, no police cars waited at the exit, and everything appeared calm enough. If not for the fact those two airport security officers had knocked on his door not fifteen minutes ago—and the fact Malik was hiding in the back—Altair might think nothing was wrong._ _

__This only made the whole situation more bizarre._ _

__He braked when he reached the security guard’s booth. He recognized the man as one of the regular employees he met everyday. He was reassuringly white. Altair raised a hand in greeting, and rolled down his window._ _

__“Hey Altair,” the guard called out. “Done with your shift already?”_ _

__“Yeah.” He hesitated a moment, before asking, “I saw a commotion back by the tarmac. Any idea what’s it about?”_ _

__The guard shrugged. “No. Lost baggage maybe.”_ _

__“Hmmm.”_ _

__So, the guard knew nothing. Stranger and stranger. Not that he would complain if that meant leaving without being stopped._ _

__“Oh well, I’m off. I’ve been up all night and my bed’s calling.”_ _

__The guard laughed and raised the barrier, allowing Altair to drive through. As soon as they were out, Malik spoke. “Drive to the corner of Ryan Avenue and Riddle Street. A black sedan should be waiting there.”_ _

__Altair nodded, then realized Malik couldn’t see him and said out loud, “Right.”_ _

__He kept looking in his back mirror while he drove, but there were no indication that he was followed. It didn’t help his paranoia much, but he did finally relax when he got in sight of the street corner and saw a black sedan parked there, waiting, just as Malik has indicated. Its windows were tinted in such a way that it was impossible to see whoever sat inside._ _

__“Your ride’s there,” Altair told Malik._ _

__“Stop your car behind it,” Malik instructed, and Altair did so._ _

__No movement came from the parked sedan. Altair had expected someone to get out to help Malik, but it looked like Malik didn’t. Hissing in pain and cursing under his breath in Arabic, he extracted himself out of his hiding spot between the seats and opened the car door to get out. Altair looked out with some worry as Malik wobbled on his feet, having to hold on to the car’s door to stay upright. Still no one reacted in the sedan._ _

__Altair rolled the passenger window down. “Will you… be ok?” he asked Malik._ _

__“Yeah.” He started walking but stopped at the passenger window. “Now, go home and forget you ever saw me.”_ _

__Altair snorted. “Not likely.”_ _

__“It’s better that way. I promise you won’t be bothered again.”_ _

__Without looking back, Malik made his way to the sedan. When he reached it, the back door opened and he got in. No sooner had the door closed again that the car accelerated away, leaving Altair alone with his questions and a bloodied tarp he now needed to dispose of. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. What a day._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

Three nights a week, Altair worked at a downtown club, sometimes as a bouncer, sometimes helping at the bar. It was a job he’d held since before his bird-handling gig, and although he’d curtailed his hours a great deal, he still appreciated the supplemental income it provided. Tonight, though, it was harder than usual to focus on his job.

Six days. It had been six days and six nights since Malik crashed into his life—and left it again just as swiftly—and Altair couldn't stop thinking about it. It made him feel twitchy, and he had found himself looking over his shoulder, searching for a threat that wasn’t there, more than once in the last week.

“Hey, Ibn’ La-Ahad, I’m talking to you.”

Altair blinked and tried to focus on the speaker. George, the other bouncer working that night, was frowning at a point situated close to the club’s entrance.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Is it just me, or do those people look like trouble?” He nodded his chin toward a group of men just now making their way inside.

It wasn’t unusual for George to ask him that question. He considered Altair to have excellent instincts when it came to sniffing out trouble. If only he knew…

“I see them,” Altair confirmed. He closed his eyes and fell into his second vision, not yet truly worried about the men. Their club rarely saw trouble other than the occasional drunken brawl.

His breath caught in his throat when he next opened his eyes. The men at the entrance were awash in an angry, threatening red aura. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, just as one of them looked his way. Their eyes crossed for a second, and Altair recognized the airport security guard who had been trying to find Malik. Not the white one, the red one.

The man smirked and pointed at him as he said something to his companion. Altair took a step back, trying very hard to convince himself there was no way those men would try something in the crowded club. There had to be too many witnesses around. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t bet his life on it.

“Hey man, what’s wrong?” George asked, watching Altair curiously. “You’ve turned white as a sheet. You know these guys?”

Altair could only nod. He couldn’t begin to explain how he knew them.

“Gangs? They look awfully well dressed for that,” Georges puzzled out loud. “Mafia? Those guys don’t usually cause trouble here.”

“I… don’t know who they are exactly, but they’re definitely trouble,” Altair finally answered out loud.

He had to get out of the club. Those guys could only be there for one reason. Him. Dammit, Malik had said he’d be left alone. 

“Hey man, I need to go check something in the kitchen. Keep an eye on them, will you?”

“Wait, where are you going? You can’t leave me alone in here after you said they’re trouble,” George complained.

Altair’s smile was strained when he replied. “I won’t be long. I really need to go now.”

“What bee got up you ass?” Altair heard George grumble, but he was already gone. He hurried toward the back of the club, looking over his shoulder every few steps. The red men had separated, and he realized with some dread that they were making their way on each side of him. Trying to cut off his exit.

 _Shit, shit, shit_.

Altair plunged his hand in his jeans pockets, in search of anything that could help. His fingers brushed against his key chain, and he yanked it out. It would have to do, he thought as he slipped a key between his knuckles. He had no opportunity to think of more, for at that moment one of the red men stepped out of the crowd to bar his way. Altair’s eyes bulged when he caught sight of the gun the thug was pointing at him.

“You’re coming with us.”

“You’re not about to shoot me in the middle of a crowded club,” Altair blurted out, aghast.

At that exact moment, the club’s fire alarm began to blare, drowning out even the music. Altair caught a whiff of smoke and saw someone pointing at the dance floor. The crowd backed off enough for him to spot flames. 

They’d started a fire in the goddamn club!

The man smirked and gestured with his gun toward one of the club’s emergency exits. Panic was starting to take hold of the patrons despite the club employees’ best efforts to get them to exit the building calmly. In the pandemonium, no one paid them any heed. 

Grudgingly, Altair began to walk toward the side of the room. He wished he could wipe the sweat that had formed on his brow but he didn’t want to make any sudden move that might push the red man to shoot him. He licked his lips nervously. He needed to think of something before they stepped outside the club. Instinct told him that he wouldn’t survive long once they got him alone.

He found his opportunity as they were about to reach the door with the red “Exit” sign over it. People were crowding around it in their attempt to get out, preventing Altair’s kidnapper from pushing through. They were jostled to the side as more people pushed through and Altair reacted instantly. Using his makeshift key weapon, he punched the red man, trying not to think about the gun still trained toward his chest. He managed to catch his opponent by surprise, however, and the man staggered back, cursing in pain and clutching at the bloody gash on his cheek. A kick from Altair sent his gun hand wide, and the gun discharged into the wall. The clubgoer closest to them screamed and tried to get away from the altercation, only adding to the general chaos.

Thinking of nothing other than survival, Altair dove into the crowd, pushing his way in the opposite direction from everyone else. He was pretty certain those people would have men waiting outside the front door. They might not know about the kitchen door, though, or so he hoped.

The smoke was getting thicker now, and flames had engulfed the dance floor. Bent almost in half so he would stay hidden, Altair hurried toward the back of the club. He could barely breathe through the smoke and heat as he got closer to the source of the fire, but he didn’t stop until he’d pushed through the kitchen’s swivel door and slipped inside.

Once there, he took a moment to catch his breath in the somewhat cooler air of the kitchen. His hands shook, and he cursed as he tried to stave off the sense of panic building in his chest. “Right. I need to get out of here now,” he said out loud, the sound of his own voice making him grimace with how shaky it sounded. 

Once he had his nerves under control again, Altair cracked the back door open and glanced outside. They alley behind the club looked empty and quiet, and he sighed in relief. He was safe… for now. He slipped out the door and half-walked, half-ran toward the spot where he had parked his car earlier in the evening.

He thought he would make it. He thought he’d get to his car and drive the hell out of there before they found out he’d escaped them. Unfortunately, his budding sense of hope was crushed when he turned a corner and saw his car. Its tires had been slashed and its windshield smashed in. The smell of gasoline filled the air, and the pool of liquid gathering under the hood could only be coming from the gas line.

“Son of a bitch,” Altair cursed under his breath.

A glimpse of a red aura at the edge of his vision was the only warning Altair got before gunfire erupted from a side alley. He jumped backward out of sight, but not before a bullet ricocheted on the wall not two inches from his nose. Then pain, like fire, flared along the right side of his ribs. He stumbled, hissing between his teeth. He felt a tear in his shirt, and warm stickiness starting to soak the fabric. “Fuck!” Another bullet must have hit him.

No time to check now. Altair swivelled around and fled in the opposite direction from the gunshots. If he could reach St Lawrence Boulevard, a subway station was situated nearby. He’d be safe if he managed to lose himself amongst the throngs of evening commuters. Or so he hoped. 

Still running full speed, he happened upon a tall fence separating the alley he stood in and a better lit street. Gaze traveling from the dumpster bin tucked into a dark corner to the brick wall a its back, he quickly calculated his jump. He was somewhat out of shape and he knew it. He hadn’t practiced parkour much since his early twenties, but he had once been a more than competent tracer. He'd never had to use his skills to save his life before, though.

Never slowing, he made the first jump, got onto the dumpster, hit the wall with his foot at an angle, and grabbed the top of the fence to propel himself to the other side. He rolled when he hit the ground, agony shooting through his side again. He came up running, grounding his teeth not to curse in pain.

Altair never made it to the subway station. When he reached its vicinity, he stopped long enough to scan the street in front of him. Pain made his second vision swim in and out of focus, making it hard to see anything, but even through the haze he spotted red. Cursing under his breath, he stepped back into the shadows. They were waiting for him there too. Those men really were everywhere!

He heard siren in the distance — firetrucks most probably. He couldn’t linger for long, and needed to think of another solution. The longer he stayed in the same place, the more likely it was that he would be found. He scanned the street again, looking for a possible escape route, but he saw no way to reach the next crossroad without being spotted by those watching the subway station.

The sound of footsteps coming from farther back in the alley told him his pursuers were getting closer. Even the tall fence he had jumped wouldn't be much of an obstacle in the long run. He looked up, and made a face. The brick building to his left was old and offered some handholds and footholds, but— 

“He went that way!”

The words, coming from much too close, spurred Altair into desperate action. He ran to the building, jumped up, using a foot on the wall to push himself upward, and caught the first floor’s fire escape ladder. It was adrenaline alone that allowed Altair to pull himself up, and then scale up the rest of the sheer brick face of the old commercial building. Once at the top, he collapsed on his hands and knees and clutched at the left side of his chest. 

When he removed his hand, it was red with blood. “Shit.” He sat up on his knees and pulled his shirt up to inspect the wound. The bullet had only grazed him, but it had left behind a deep gash to his ribs and that bitch was burning like a thousand suns.

Back in the streets, those thugs were still looking for him. In time, they would find him, even up here. They had cut his access to the metro, where he could have hopefully found a police officer, and left his car a trashed mess. “Fucking bastards,” he hissed through his teeth at the memory of it.

He reached into his pockets, fumbled around some, and finally found his phone. When Malik had used it, he’d been so exhausted and in pain that Altair didn’t expect he had thought to erase the number he’d called from the phone’s history.

It better be there.

It was, thank god. With nothing left to lose, Altair pressed the callback icon and waited. The phone rang, and rang, and finally the line clicked. His relief was short-lived, though, when he heard the robotic voice of a voicemail message saying “Please leave your message after the tone.”

“Malik, you son-of-a-bitch,” Altair hissed into the phone nonetheless. “You said I wouldn’t be dragged into this. They came to my club tonight and they fucking burned the place down trying to get to me! They tried to kill me! I don’t know where you are right now, but I saved your sorry ass last week. The least you can do is get me out of here.” Of course, no one answered. Altair didn’t even know if this number could really allow him to reach Malik and whoever had been driving the black sedan. “Dammit to hell,” he cursed at the phone and ended the call.

He had to get himself to safety. With arms that still shook form the effort to climb to the rooftop, he pushed himself back to his feet, hissing when the wound at his side reminded him of its presence. He half-ran, half-limped to the cluster of HVAC machinery taking the middle of the roof, and crouched behind them. 

They wouldn’t keep him safe very long, but it was enough to keep him out of view for now.

His phone started ringing then, Lorde’s Everybody Wants to Rule the World nearly making him jump out of his skin. Cursing, he reached for his phone again, and was about to close it without answering when he caught sight of the number on the screen and stopped mid-move. The same number he’d called not two minutes ago. He swiped at the screen and said in a voice he tried to keep calm, “Hello?”

“Mr. Ibn’ La-Ahad,” a calm voice with an British accent said. It wasn’t Malik’s voice, was Altair’s first thought. And whoever it was knew his full name. This wasn’t a piece of info he’d given even Malik. 

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“We can do this one of two ways, Mr. Ibn’ La-Ahad,” the dry british voice said. “You can stand here asking me questions while those Templars catch up to you, or you can follow my instructions and hope to survive the night.”

Altair ground his teeth, fighting his urge to curse at the man. Finally, he spit, “Fine.”

“Good. Now, listen well. Fifteen minutes from now, a car will be waiting for you at the corner of St Lawrence and St Catherine.”

“How do I recognize it?”

The man tsked impatiently. “You’ve seen it before.”

So, the same sedan that had been waiting for Malik. “Right. Ok. But there are guys down there, searching for me.”

“You’ve been able to avoid them up until now.” And he sounded faintly… surprised as he said this.

“I’m just good that way,” Altair replied tartly. He touched his ribs again and grimaced.

The man on the other end of the phone snorted. “I’m confident you’ll find a way to get to us, Mr. Ibn’ La-Ahad.”

Or what? They would let him die? Well, that certainly was a cheery thought.

“I’ll be there.”

The line went dead without the british saying anything more. Altair cursed at the silenced phone, first in French, then English, then Arabic. Afterward, he felt slightly better. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think. He was about three streets down from St Catherine. He could possibly follow the roof line at least until the first crossing. Hopefully, that would bring him far enough to stay out of sight of his pursuers.

Templars. That’s what the man on the phone had called them. It made the whole situation sound even more insane, frankly.

Still, whatever weird name they went by, their bullets were real enough. 

With a grunt, Altair stood and stretched his already stiff muscles, then left his hiding spot. He had only fifteen minute to reach the rendezvous point, and he had to hurry if he wanted to get there in time.

By a mix of skills, good timing, and sheer dumb luck, Altair arrived in sight of St Catherine Street without hearing shouts behind him. It was a good thing too, as his second sight had deserted him somewhere along the way. He hurt too much to focus, and his head started throbbing every time he tried. 

He looked right, then left, his agitation growing as he saw no sign of the car supposedly waiting for him. Had the Brit lied to him? Was this a trap? But then, as if on command, a black sedan appeared, turning from a side street and coming his way. It stopped in front of his hiding spot, and the back door on the passenger side opened. 

Still, Altair didn’t move. He’d been through too much that night not to be wary. “Get inside,” an impatient voice said after a moment. A voice Altair recognized. Malik.

He glanced around one last time and, seeing no visible threat, he sprinted the last of the distance to the car and slid inside.

“Close the door,” Malik ordered as soon as Altair was inside. Malik sat on the other side of the back seat, still dressed all in black, his left arm in a sling. He sounded tense but calm.

Altair obeyed without a word and pulled the door closed. The driver was accelerating away from the curb even before it had clicked shut. From where he sat, Altair could only see that it was a man, around his age, wearing a hoodie, and with brown hair cut short. It wasn’t anyone he’d seen before.

He turned to Malik. Malik, he knew. Malik was the reason he was wounded, pursued by a band of madmen with guns and his club had been torched.

“You said I’d be safe,” he accused, and thought he saw Malik flinch slightly.

“We didn’t think they’d bother with you. We miscalculated.”

“Obviously.”

Malik’s expression darkened. “Yes.” He extended his right hand, as though he wanted to pat Altair’s leg. Altair jerked back too late. He felt the prick of a needle on his thigh, and he stared at the small pen-like syringe Malik held between his fingers. 

“Merde! What did you…” His voice trailed off as he felt the start of disorientation settle around his mind.

Drugged.

He lunged for the car door, but found it locked. Like an animal cornered, he did the only thing he could think of, and attacked Malik. It didn’t go well. Even with only one hand, it took Malik only a few second to subdue him, and Altair found himself pinned to the seat by Malik’s weight, his limbs growing heavy and his mind foggy.

“Stop struggling,” Malik hissed.

“Fuck you,” he slurred back. Darkness was quickly closing in on him, and there was nothing he could do. 

Eventually, inevitably, he lost the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITS : I did a few edits for typos and one continuity error. (Sept. 18th 2014)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Altair wakes up with a raging headache... and it only goes downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun with this. Newbie!Altair is a joy to write. I hope you guys enjoy :-)
> 
> Song for this chapter : Warriors, Imagine Dragon

“He’s been unconscious too long.” A voice. Female. Somewhat worried.

“Patience. I didn’t have his exact weight, so the dosage was not perfect.” A man this time, with an accent that spoke of the hills of Tuscany.

Other voices joined the conversation, talking around him, but Altair couldn’t focus on any of them. His head pounded, and his body felt like lead. What happened? His memories were a blur, and for the longest time he could do nothing other than fight against this fog clouding his mind while the voices kept droning on around him. He was lying down on a flat surface with a little give, his head pillowed by something softer. A bed? An uncomfortable one, if so.

Eventually, the dizziness receded somewhat and his muscles began answering his commands again. He tried to sit up, but quickly found out that he couldn’t, and not for lack of trying. His wrists had been immobilized by straps on each side of him, preventing movement.

“Ah, _bene_. He’s coming around. See, I told you,” the voice with the italian accent said, sounding pleased now.

Altair cracked an eye open, and was immediately blinded by the ceiling lights. He squeezed his eyes shut again and groaned, his head throbbing. “Where…” he groaned.

Fingers pressed against his right wrist—taking his pulse—as the italian-sounding voice said, “Don’t try to talk yet. Give your body time to recover from the sedative.”

Sedative? The word prompted an image of Malik holding a syringe, and then keeping Altair pinned to the car seat while Altair struggled against unconsciousness. This memory, followed by a cascade of jumbled bits and pieces of his flight from the Templars, made him gasp. They’d drugged and kidnapped him! Whoever _they_ were. He began to struggle in earnest, trying to sit up in spite of the straps and the drugs still making him feel like his limbs weighed a ton. 

A hand pushed against his chest, gently but firmly, forcing him to lie down still. “You will rip your stitches if you keep pulling like that.”

Altair didn’t care. They had no right to be keeping him prisoner.

“He’s panicking,” a woman, not the same one as before, observed from somewhere farther back.

The man with the italian accent—a doctor?—huffed in irritation. “You would too if you were in his situation.”

“It was needed,” a new voice said. Altair recognized it. Malik. 

Altair stopped trying to dislodge the hand on his chest, fighting the panic and dizziness so he could open his eyes again. The brightness was nearly too much at first, but his vision slowly adapted to the ambient light and he finally got a look at the room and the people surrounding him. He had woken in what looked like a makeshift hospital room, the walls made of simple gray cement blocks, the concrete floor also bare. The equipment all around him, on the other hand, looked state of the art and Altair would have been unable to name most of it.

Five people stood around his narrow hospital bed. Of them, Altair recognized only Malik—still wearing the same clothes as before—and the car’s driver. Two young women, a blonde dressed in a brown jacket and high collared shirt, and a brunette with a pair of headphones around her neck, were discussing in low voices several feet away. Finally, a blondish man in his early thirties, dressed in the white labcoat of a doctor or scientist, hovered close. He was the one with his hand on Altair’s chest, although he removed it when Altair cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Ah, _bene_ ,” he said to Altair with a smile. “ _Mi dispiace,_ but I was told the restraints are necessary for now.” He gave Malik a very pointed gaze, before turning his attention back to Altair. “Altair, right? How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling, doc, you people kidnapped me!” Altair snapped, then groaned as the sound of his own voice set his head to pounding.

“Ah, yes, of course. Also necessary I’m afraid.” The man shrugged contritely.

“Who are you?” he asked more softly.

The man exchanged a look with Malik, who gave him a slight nod, before he replied. “I am called Leo. Short for Leonardo.”

“And yet this isn’t the New York sewer system and you aren’t a ninja turtle.” Altair regretted the quip almost as soon as he said it, but Leo didn’t seem to mind it, as he only laughed.

“I was named for Leonardo Da Vinci, actually.” He gestured to the rest of the group. “You know Malik already, I think.”

Altair glared in Malik’s direction. Without him, none of this would have happened. 

“The two beautiful ladies back there are Lucy and Rebecca,” Leo continued, nodding first at the blonde, then the brunette. The woman named Rebecca greeted Altair with a good-humored “Hey”, while Lucy simply inclined her head in silence. “And finally, there’s Desmond, who you probably also remember.” The introductions concluded, Leo waited for Altair to say something.

“I’d shake everyone’s hand, but I’m rather tied up at the moment.”

Leo had the good grace to look embarrassed, but he was the only one. No one else reacted to the acid comment.

“This tells me shit,” Altair continued when no one raised to the bait. “Who _are_ you people?” 

He tried to fall into his second vision, wanting to know how much of a threat these people represented. Bad idea. The remaining drugs in his system, combined with his still throbbing head, made the attempt a painful exercise in futility. His vision swam in and out of focus, but the auras never appeared. He closed his eyes and moaned, almost losing his grasp on consciousness again. As he fought down his nausea, he heard Leo murmur, “Interesting. It almost looks like…” He trailed off before Altair could find out what was so “interesting” about him. 

Leo moved away, and when Altair cautiously reopened his eyes, he saw the man deep in a whispered conversation with Malik. Altair caught only a few fragments of it.

“...sure he isn’t connected?”

Malik shook his head. “No link…” Then, “...did the research...”

“...could have sworn… get Shaun to run another background check...”

Malik grunted, then shrugged. “If you think that’s necessary, Leo.”

They both walked out of the room, leaving Altair with only Lucy, Rebecca, and Desmond for company. He cleared his throat. “Could someone maybe unstrap me? I can’t feel my hands anymore.”

Rebecca hesitated a moment, then moved closer to him. Lucy clasped her shoulder and pulled her back before she could reach Altair’s side. “No, Rebecca. Malik said to keep him there.”

“Oh, come on, Lucy. You’re a master, Desmond’s getting quite competent as a journeyman, and the guy’s a civilian woozie on painkillers. Do you really think he could overpower you both?”

Lucy bit her bottom lip, clearly conflicted. 

“And I need to use the bathroom,” Altair insisted, and it wasn’t even a lie. Now that he was fully awake, his bladder was reminding him of its presence rather insistently.

“Oh, ewwww.” Rebecca turned to Lucy. “I’m not cleaning up the mess if he soils himself. It’s going to be all on you.”

“Oh, alright,” Lucy grumbled, and sighed in annoyance. “Stay back, I’ll do it.”

“What? Afraid he’ll jump me?”

“Rebecca, we know nothing about him and you’re not combat-trained.”

Rebecca’s expression turned into a slight pout, but she stepped away from Altair nonetheless, muttering under her breath something that sounded like, “I got the basics same as you.”

Lucy ignored her grumbling, and approached the bed. She gave Altair a cold stare. “You better not be thinking of doing something stupid.”

Right this moment, Altair wasn’t planning on anything other than getting free of those straps and finding a bathroom. The woman might be quite a bit shorter than him, but the confident way she held herself and the hint of a leather brace he saw peeking out of her right sleeve—the same weapon Malik had worn?—made him disinclined to underestimate her.

“Nothing stupid,” he said, and smiled at her in the most guileless way he could manage. Lucy looked unimpressed by his attempt. “I have no idea where I am and there’s at least five of you here,” he went on. “I don’t want to end up the night with a knife in my throat.” 

Lucy nodded, seemingly convinced, and went to work on the straps. A few moments later, they fell away and he was finally able move his arms. Making a face, he rubbed his aching wrists, trying to get the circulation flowing in his hands again.

“Can you walk?” Lucy asked, looking dubious. “The bathroom is back there and I’m not going to carry you.”

With a grunt, Altair sat up and waited for his vision to stop swimming. Something was pulling on the right side of his chest, not exactly painful but definitely unpleasant. Oh, right. The stitches. He wondered why they’d bothered to provide him with medical attention after kidnapping him. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him.

But then, nothing did at this point.

Once he was certain he wouldn’t empty his stomach on anyone’s shoes, Altair lowered his feet to the concrete floor, frowning when the coldness of it seeped through his bare skin. They’d taken off his shoes— 

—And his shirt, leaving him wearing only a pair of jeans. And he was only now realizing it. _Oh, just wonderful_. “Is there any way I could get my shoes and t-shirt back?”

“Your t-shirt was caked with blood and Leo had to cut it off to get to your wound, sorry,” Rebecca offered with a shrug. “As for your shoes…” She trailed off and looked at Lucy, then shrugged again. “You’ll have to ask Malik.”

“Come on,” Lucy cut in, tapping her foot on the floor impatiently. “You shouldn’t even be up right now.”

Hovering close but not making any move to help him, Lucy led Altair toward a door half-hidden behind what looked like some surgery room equipment. When they reached it, she said, “Hurry,” and crossed her arms in front of her chest, waiting for him to step inside.

Altair was glad to find a basic but perfectly normal bathroom on the other side, with a toilet, sink and cracked mirror hanging on the wall. For a moment, he entertained the idea of breaking the mirror and using a piece of it as a weapon, but his odds of escaping his captors, even armed, weren’t good. He sighed. He didn’t have enough of a death wish to attempt it.

When he finally left the bathroom again, he found Lucy still waiting for him beside the door. Rebecca and Desmond had left the room, but they had been replaced by a glowering Malik.

“You can go, Lucy. I’ll take it from there,” Malik said.

“Alright.” She nodded to Malik and left without looking back.

Alone with Malik, Altair tensed, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance for better balance. He had no idea what the man planned for him, but he wanted to be prepared for it. This action earned him a raised eyebrow and snide look from Malik, who simply continued observing Altair as though he were a mildly interesting puzzle.

In the end, Altair was the one to break the silence. “Why did you kidnap me?”

“We didn’t kidnap you, we saved your life.”

“And yet I distinctly recall getting drugged in the back of a car and waking up strapped to a bed in a… Hell, what is this place? Where am I?” Altair fisted his hands, wanting nothing more than hit the man in the nose. If only Malik got closer...

“A safe place, for now.” Malik sighed in exasperation. “I am not planning to attack you, so stop looking at me like that. Now sit down, we need to talk.”

Altair had no intention of obeying—really, he didn’t—but he felt dizzy again, his knees wobbling too much for his taste. The room contained no chair, or even a stool, so he ended up returning to the bed. “I hope this talk includes the reason I was drugged and brought here.”

“That depends.” Malik was still watching him closely, his head slightly cocked to the side.

“On what?”

“Your answers.”

Altair grunted. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re the one who hid in my aviary and got those guys on my tail.”

“Just answer my questions truthfully, then we’ll see how much I can tell you.”

Altair had half a mind to tell Malik to go fuck himself. He didn’t need to answer any question. In his present situation, unfortunately, it would be counterproductive to antagonize his captors. Not while he had no idea what they would do to him. “Alright,” he finally said grudgingly. “What do you want to know?”

“What is your name?”

“Altair Ibn’ La-Ahad, but you already know that. Your man on the phone used my full name.”

“What is your _real_ name?” Malik only repeated, sounding annoyed.

“Real name? That’s my legal name.”

“But you weren’t born with it. No one’s named Altair Son-of-no-one in this day and age.”

“What’s it to you?” Altair might not have been born with that name, but it was the name he had chosen.

“Just answer the question.”

“Fine. No, this isn’t the name I was born with. I was born Altair Frederic Morin. Happy now?”

Malik didn’t seem particularly happy, no. “Is that your father’s last name?”

“No, my mother’s. My father was never interested in knowing about me.”

At this piece of information, Malik perked up, his eyes boring into Altair’s. “You have middle-eastern roots, that much is evident.”

“Yeah, that’s where mom said my sperm donor was from.” As a child, she had pushed him to learn about arabic culture and language, in spite of his general anger at his father’s people.

“Did she say where in the Middle East?”

“Jordan, or maybe Syria. I don’t think she really knew. Why do you want to know all of this? Why does it matter? I never met him in my life. I’ve never even seen a picture of him.”

“So, truly a ‘son of no one’,” Malik said under his breath, then, “Do you know his name?”

“Only his first name. Umar. He never told mom his last name, and he disappeared again before she learned she was pregnant with—” He stopped short at Malik’s sharp intake of breath. “What?” 

“Umar? Are you sure?”

Altair shrugged. “That’s the name he gave mom.”

“Can she confirm this?”

“She died nine years ago, so no, she can’t.” It was after her death from cancer that he’d decided to legally change his name. Stupid decision perhaps, but he didn’t regret it. 

“Hmph.”

Altair waited for an explanation of Malik’s reaction to the news of his father’s name. It never came, though, and he began to grow incensed again. “Why is my father’s name important anyway?”

“Important? Maybe, maybe not.”

“That’s not an answer.” 

Anger boiling to the surface of his mind, Altair acted without thinking it through—not a first for him. He jumped to his feet and, ignoring the way his legs wobbled, stalked toward Malik. He would get his answers even if he had to shake them from the infuriating man. Malik watched him approach with his scowl, but didn’t react until Altair was almost on him. Then, just as Altair pulled his arm back to punch him, he snatched him by the neck with his one good hand, moving so fast Altair had no time to do anything but squawk in surprise. Altair was perhaps one or two inches taller than Malik, but in that moment there was no question of who was winning this fight before it could even begin. Altair could barely breathe around the fingers squeezing his windpipe.

Malik brought Altair’s face level to his and glowered. “I wouldn’t try that again were I you, novice.” He let go of Altair’s neck, and Altair stumbled back, wheezing.

“Stay here,” he ordered, as if Altair had any other choice, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Altair heard the click of a lock sliding into place, and cursed. Now what? He looked around the room, his cell for the time being, but came up with no plan. He was still in the same mess as before, still a prisoner.

And he still didn’t know who those people were, or why his father’s name mattered.

Pacing helped calm him down somewhat, or at least it tired him enough that he stopped feeling like he wanted to punch a wall. Without any way to tell the time, Altair had no idea how long he’d been left to his own devices when he heard a bit of a commotion coming from the other side of the door. Curious, he approached and pressed his ear to it to try to listen in on what was going on.

People were speaking. Altair recognized Malik and the british man he’d talked to on the phone. A third male voice joined in on the conversation, not one he’d heard before. It sported an italian accent as thick as that of the doctor, though, making him wonder if they were related.

“Your report?” Malik was saying

“As I told Shaun, I lost them when they scattered in the tunnels.” The italian sounded disgusted with himself.

“That’s still something.” Malik stopped speaking for a moment, perhaps thinking, then said, “Shaun, get me the original blueprints of the Montreal underground tunnels. The Templars might have been able to add to them in secret.”

“Sure, mate,” Shaun drawled, his british accent lending his already sarcastic tone even more of a bite. “Would that be before or after I finish with that “urgent” research you just asked me to perform?” 

“Hmph,” Malik huffed. “After. It shouldn’t take too long to verify my hypothesis.”

Silence fell on the other side of the door, punctuated only by some shuffling of feet and someone’s low curse in italian.

“So, I hear you captured yourself a boyfriend, _amico_?” the Italian said after several minutes, his voice teasing.

“I have no time for this, Ezio,” Malik replied, and Altair could feel the roll of his eyes.

Ezio sniffed. “You have no sense of humor, Malik” he complained, then added, more seriously, “Still, did you have to bring him here?”

“The Templars would have either killed or captured him otherwise.”

“Feeling responsible?”

Altair strained his ears, but even then he couldn’t hear if Malik answered that question. _You should be_ , he thought.

The third man, Shaun, cleared his throat loudly, and Ezio didn’t push matter further. Again, there was the sound of people moving around, then Malik spoke. “Are you certain, Shaun?”

“Yeah, pretty certain. The dates coincide with his last known mission before he was killed.”

“Umar’s kid… So, it seems Leo was right after all. He did see him trying to use eagle vision.”

Eagle vision? Was that what it was called? Altair hadn’t known it visibly showed when he used it.

Someone whistled. “Eagle vision? Without any kind of prior training?” It was Ezio again. “I didn’t think that was possible.” 

“We don’t actually know if he knows how use it, or if he was only acting out of pure instinct,” Shaun pointed out.

Altair snorted. Those people weren’t giving him enough credit.

“We already know the ability runs in his family. Ezio and Desmond both—” Malik sounded like he was thinking out loud.

“Yes,” Ezio interrupted, “but I’ve had years of practice and Desmond is still struggling with it.”

More confused now than ever, Altair frowned. Malik seemed to be saying Desmond and that other man, Ezio, were somehow connected to his father? He had family!?

“What do you plan do with him?” Shaun eventually asked. “In spite of his kinship to Umar, he’s not actually one of ours, you know, just a civilian.”

“I would bet good money that the Templars knew,” Malik grumbled. “I cannot think of any other reason for them to send so many men after a simple civilian. Either they thought he was an assassin himself, or they believed he knew how to find us. In any case, they’ll only come looking for him again now that they’ve found him.”

The sound of Malik’s voice was coming closer, and Altair jumped backward just in time not to get knocked on his ass by the door slamming open in his face. For an instant, Malik and Altair faced each other, as Altair attempted to use his second sight again. Eagle vision, they’d called it. This time, although his head throbbed from the effort, he was actually able to ascertain that not only was Malik still blue, so were the two other men he’d been talking with. None of them were threats to him.

Ezio whistled again. “Definitely more than instinct,” he commented to no one in particular.

Altair blinked, and the auras disappeared. He pinched the bridge of his nose to calm his raging headache. “Not instinct,” he told the Italian, then looked at Malik with a challenge in his eyes.

“You were listening,” Malik said. 

It wasn’t a question, but Altair answered anyway. “Yeah. I still don’t understand what’s going on, though.”

“It’s… complicated. First, though, you have a choice to make.”

Altair tensed. He didn’t think he’d like his options. “Yeah?”

“You can stay here as a…. guest, until we find some way to get you to another safe house.”

“And once I’m there?”

Malik looked away. “You will probably grow old there… unless the Templar finds you first.”

He didn’t need Malik to go into more detail. He already knew the Templars were bad news…

“What’s the other option then?”

“You stay here and help us.”

He thought of blood, of gunshots, and of Malik’s strange weapon. Curiosity, suspicion and uneasiness warred in his mind. He knew he was on the verge of a decision that would alter the rest of his life. “Help you do what?”

Malik smirked humorlessly. “Fight the Templars. Kill those who want to profit from people’s suffering. Protect the world.”

Behind him, Ezio snorted softly, and Shaun glared at him. Altair licked his lips nervously. “Who—what are you?”

“I am an Assassin. So was your father. And you can also be taught to be one, should you choose to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give a few more details about Altair's name in this fic. When I got a comment in the last chapter about the way to call Altair in the case of using his last name in English, I asked a Jordanian friend of mine. She said that, not only is the "son of" naming convention not something that's really in use anymore, the name Ibn' La-Ahad is just really weird to her ears. Although it is translated as "son of no one", it just feels wrong to her as an arabic speaker. That got me to thinking how my modern Altair got by his name. It couldn't really come from his father as I'd already decided he had never met him, and since the story takes place in Montreal (Ubisoft is in Montreal and as I lived there part of my life, I know it well :P), I knew his mother had to be french-canadian.
> 
> And so it went that I got the idea of Altair changing his name at after he mother dies, both out of anger and pain. And, as he has learned some arabic but isn't fluent in the language, he ends up with a name that doesn't quite fit but reflects the feeling of being abandonned he had at the time.
> 
> Well, this was slightly long-winded. I'll get back to writing chapter 4 now ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some explaining on Malik's part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes :
> 
> I changed the fic's rating from explicit to Mature as there won't be sex in a while, and when/if it happens, I'm not actually certain how explicit it'll be
> 
> This chapter isn't my best, and it might seem a little info-dumpy. If so, I'm sorry. Lots of infos I needed to convey.
> 
> Assassins sass is the best sass frankly. ^_^
> 
> Music : Rule the World, Kamelot

“So… you’re mercenaries, then? Hitmen?”

Malik frowned. “No, we’re not mercenaries or hitmen. We’re Assassins. Part of the Assassin Order.”

Assassin order? Why not Santa’s elves while they were at it? And yet… Altair’s world had been turned upside down and inside out since finding Malik hiding in his aviary, and he felt in the pit of his stomach that Malik was telling him the truth now. “The assassin order. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Quite.”

Altair stared. Malik stared right back. “And those men that were after me. You called them Templars. As in… from-the-time-of-the-crusades Templars?”

“Yes. And no. It’s a very long story.” Malik sighed. “We have been at war with the Templars for a very, very long time now.” His tone was still just as serious as before. Behind him, Shaun and Ezio were nodding, and neither of them—not even Ezio—looked about to admit this was all some sort of very bad joke they were playing on him.

Altair had to lean against the door frame for support, his dizziness returning. “And I have no choice in the matter? Fuck. My work. My home. I can’t leave all of it behind…” 

“They will come for you again, Altair. If I’m right and they now know that you’re Umar’s son, they won’t leave such a wild card alive.”

Umar again. What was his father’s role in all of this? “I don’t understand. What does my father—”

Malik interrupted. “As I said before, Umar was one of our own. A master assassin working for the Levantine Brotherhood. I am too young to have known him, but he had quite a reputation while alive. He was killed twenty-seven years ago, while on a mission here, in Canada.”

Malik watched him, and Altair blinked slowly as the implications of this sank in. “He… died shortly after meeting mom?”

“Yes.” Malik frowned. “We have nothing in our files about his meeting with her, but Umar had a reputation as a loner who fiercely protected his private life.”

And, as Shaun had mentioned to Malik earlier, the dates coincided. Altair ran a hand in his hair, unsure how to feel about the fact his father was most probably dead, and had been dead all of his life. For so long, he had held on to his anger for the man who had abandoned his pregnant mother. To learn now that he’d died left him feeling unsure of how to feel.

Malik cleared his throat and Altair’s attention returned to the present. The man’s expression had softened, and he took a deep breath. “I know this is a lot to take in, and it’s late. We’re all exhausted. We still have a lot to discuss, but it can wait until the morning. No need to take a decision right this second.” He glanced back at Ezio and Shaun. “Ezio, get him to the men’s common room. Altair can probably use Leo’s cot for tonight, as I doubt he is going use it anyway, knowing him.” 

Ezio nodded and left his position on the other side of the room. Just like Malik’s, his gait reminded Altair of a great predator’s. Unlike Malik, however, Ezio’s eyes were full of mischief and good cheer. Could this guy really be killing people for a living?

“Come on, cousin,” he said with his lilting accent when he reached Altair’s side. “Let’s find you a bed.” He looked at Altair’s bare chest and grinned. “And clothes. Definitely clothes.”

Too tired to demand more of an explanation, Altair just shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Bed sounds… good.”

“Get some sleep,” Malik said, making Altair look at him again. “We will finish this discussion in the morning.” He returned to Shaun’s desk and they began to discuss in low voices. Altair tried to listen in on them without being too conspicuous about it, but Ezio tapped his shoulder, forcing him to focus on his new-found “cousin”.

“This way.” He nodded toward an empty corridor to their right. When he started walking, Altair fell into step beside him.

“Are we really cousins?” he asked once they were out of earshot of the other two.

“It was my great-grandmother, if I remember well. She was the sister of Umar’s grandfather. This makes us cousins of a sort,” Ezio replied easily enough. “Desmond’s bloodline is closer to yours. It was his mother who was related to Umar.” He stopped and turned to face Altair, his eyes intent as he looked him up and down. Altair was about to snap at him to get out of his personal space when Ezio smiled and nodded. “As I thought. You two look much alike. You could almost pass for brothers.”

Altair hadn’t really paid Desmond enough attention to notice the resemblance, so he had to take Ezio’s word for it. The idea of having not one but two cousins, though, after years of being completely alone after his mother’s death… it was strangely comforting, even if nothing else about his present situation was.

Ezio resumed talking before Altair could spend any more time thinking about it. “Door on your left is the bathroom. There’s only one and everyone uses it, so you better take a number. Especially in the morning”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Altair replied, blinking slowly.

“Door on the right’s the girls’ bedroom. They’re lucky, there’s only two of them. Us guys have to all share the same room. Well, apart from Malik. He has his own room. Oh, and Leo. Leo usually sleep in his workshop, even if he has a bed with the rest of us.”

They walked past the “girls’ bedroom” and stopped at the next door. Ezio opened it with a flourish and gestured Altair inside. “This is it, _amico_. Welcome to the glamorous life of an assassin.”

The room was, just as the rest of what Altair had seen since waking up, depressingly bare and barely large enough for the four beds that filled it. Malik hadn’t been kidding when calling them cots. They appeared to be camp beds from some military surplus store. One of them was already occupied, and its inhabitant grunted when the light of the corridor fell on their face.

“Ezio, close the door,” Rebecca whined, sounding half-asleep. She then rolled around, turning her back on them.

Weren’t the “girls” supposed to have their own room, Altair puzzled, and he wondered what Rebecca was doing there.

Ezio cocked his head on the side. “Rebecca, _cara mia_. What are you doing in Desmond’s bed?” he asked.

Rebecca grumbled something that sounded like an insult to Ezio’s intelligence. “Desmond’s with Lucy. Couldn’t sleep,” she finally mumbled. “Now, close the damn door, it’s too bright in here.”

“Ahhh, well, don’t mind her,” Ezio told Altair with a shrug. “She ends up here at least once or twice a week. I hear Desmond can be… noisy.”

He pointed to a cot at the back of the room, the farthest away from the door. Coincidence or not, the position of the bed would make it very hard for Altair to leave the room without alerting the others. Not that he intended on trying to escape now. It would be pointless to do so at this point. Not only that, but he was now curious to hear the rest of Malik’s explanation. Only then would he decide how much the man had screwed up his life.

“Here, you can wear this,” Ezio said, snapping Altair out of his thoughts just in time to catch the t-shirt, hoodie, and pair of socks Ezio threw his way. He slipped the shirt on without looking at it, glad he could finally cover up. The safe-house—and he wondered if it was an underground bunker, as he’d seen no windows anywhere—was cool and damp, and he’d been getting goosebumps since waking up. 

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Oh, and you’ll want those too,” Ezio went on, and threw something else his way. Altair caught the little box, and raised an eyebrow when he saw what it was. Ear plugs.

“Shaun snores,” Ezio told him by way of explanation.

“Huh… thanks,” Altair repeated.

Ezio yawned and stretched. “Don’t know about you, _amico_ , but I’m going to bed.” Not paying any more heed to the fact Altair was in the room with him, he started undressing on the spot. Altair just had enough time to spot a few faint scars on Ezio’s chest that looked like they could have come from knife wounds, before he turned his back to the other man. He really didn’t need to witness this.

He sighed and gave the uncomfortable-looking camp bed a baleful glare. He missed his own bed already, but it would have to do for now.

*****

Ezio hadn’t been kidding when he said Shaun snored, and sleep hadn’t come easy for Altair. He finally gave up trying when first Ezio, then Shaun, walked out of the room, leaving him with the still-sleeping Rebecca. He sat up with a groan and grimaced when the stitches at his side pulled uncomfortably. He must have been under the effect of some kind of painkillers the night before, as he didn’t remember them itching and throbbing this much.

After sliding on the hoodie and socks Ezio had loaned him, Altair quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. Once in the corridor, though, he realized that he had no idea where to go. Did those people have the equivalent of a cafeteria or kitchen? His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since the sandwich he’d had for dinner last night. He had no idea what time it was now, other than it probably was morning.

A door opened farther down the corridor, and Desmond stepped out of the girls’ bedroom, yawning as he stretched the kinks out of his back. He stopped dead when he spotted Altair, and he frowned. “Hey, isn’t that one of my hoodies?” 

“I don’t know? Ezio gave it to me last night.”

Desmond rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but didn’t seem surprised to learn that Ezio had given his clothes to a stranger. Altair looked at him curiously, trying to find the resemblance between them. Desmond was slightly shorter and bulkier than he was, with paler skin, but once he knew to look for it, Altair saw it. Their eyes were almost the same shade of amber brown, their nose the same shape and their features could have been that of brothers. Or cousin. Hell, for some reason, they even sported nearly the same scar on the side of their mouth, making their likeness that much more noticeable.

“Do I have something on my face?” Desmond asked after several seconds of Altair staring at him.

Altair finally looked away, shaking his head. “No. Ezio said we looked alike, so I was trying to see for myself.”

Desmond raised an eyebrow, looking puzzled. Oh, right. He hadn’t been present when Malik and Shaun had announced their family relationship. He didn’t know yet.

“We do look similar,” he said after giving Altair a thorough once-over. “Well, that’s weird.”

Altair shrugged. “Not so much, no. According to Malik and Ezio, we’re cousins.”

Desmond’s second eyebrow shot for his hairline. “No one told me we were rescuing another assassin last night. Why did they drug you, then?”

“I’m not—” Altair made a face. “I’m not an assassin. I’m just related to one, apparently.”

“Oh, I see.” Desmond’s expression turning sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Malik was the one responsible for all of his troubles, not Desmond.

Desmond gestured to their surroundings. “I’m sure you’d have prefered to have nothing to do with any of this. With us. I understand the feeling perfectly well, believe me.”

Altair waited for Desmond to explain his last remark, but the man instead changed the subject completely. “Let’s go before the others drink all the coffee.”

Altair followed Desmond down the hall, until they reached the large room where Shaun had installed his desk and computer. On one side was a kitchenette and a long table—something Altair had failed to notice the night before—and that’s where most of the group had gathered for breakfast. Malik looked up when he heard them walk in. “Where is Rebecca?”

“She was still sleeping when I left the room.”

Although Malik frowned at that, he didn’t comment about it. Their meal was a mostly quiet affair, punctuated only by a few questions of the “Pass me the sugar,” and, “Are you done with the milk?” type. Altair thought his presence might explain at least in part the subdued atmosphere around the table, but there seemed to be more to it. Malik appeared preoccupied, and Lucy looked particularly gloomy.

Before Altair could ask about it, though, their group broke apart. The first to go was Leo, excusing himself by saying he had some work to do in his workshop. Then, Lucy got up and gestured at Desmond, who grimaced. “Already?” he asked.

“Yes, better get your training for the day out of the way,” she told him, and both left to parts unknown.

Soon after, Ezio got up without a word and followed after Leo, and Shaun muttered something about continuing his research on the underground blueprints. This left only Malik sitting at the table with Altair.

“Spit it out,” Altair said after a minute of increasingly heavy silence.

Malik looked at him. Altair tapped a finger on the table and waited. Patience wasn’t his strong virtue, though, and it didn’t take long before he prompted Malik again. “So? You said you’d explain. Tell me everything about this—this war between the assassins and the templars, and why I should care about it.”

“Everything?” Malik snorted. “That would take all week. What I can do is tell you a little about our history. Then if you’re interested in knowing more, Shaun can provide you with historical accounts.”

From his work desk, Shaun grumbled about not having time for it, but Malik paid him no attention. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking as though he was wondering how much to say. “You weren’t wrong in associating the Templars and the crusades,” he eventually said. “Since this is where it all began. The Knight Templars first arrived in the Holy Land in the twelfth century, sometime between the first and second crusade, and quickly spread to the entire Middle-East, rising in both power and influence.”

“Is the history lesson really necessary?” Altair cut in.

Malik glared at him. “You did want to know ‘everything’.”

“OK, alright. I’m listening.” He sighed.

“Now, where was I?” Malik huffed. “Shaun would be so much better with the history lesson…”

“Well, Shaun’s busy right now, thank you very much,” Shaun snapped back, not looking away from his computer screen.  
“As I was saying,” Malik said loud enough to get Altair’s attention back to him, “The Knights Templars quickly grew in power and influence around the middle East and in Europe, and before we knew it, they’d made themselves indispensable to those in power. Their reach extended even to the Sarrasins. Their goal, we found out, was to control both warring factions. That way, they hoped to impose peace the way they saw fit.”

“That… doesn’t actually sound so bad,” Altair commented. “If I remember well my high school history class, the crusades were a pretty chaotic time.”

Malik’s expression turned sardonic. “Really? What price would you pay for peace, then? How about relinquishing all control over our own life? Order and peace, the way the Templars see it, leave no room for freedom of thoughts or action. It is total servitude they want from the rest of humanity. Is this a price you would ready to pay?”

“I guess not.”

“The Order, or Brotherhood of the Assassins, or the Hashashins as we were called back then, were created to put a stop to the Templars’ design on the Holy Land, and to maintain the people’s freedom to choose their own destiny. We also strive for peace, but not at the expense of people’s free will. From the start, we have worked in the shadows to protect the light, and we continue to do so up to this day.”

“By assassinating people…”

“Only those Templars we deem too much of a threat to keep on living. Our creed is simple : Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the Brotherhood.” 

Altair shook his head, trying to digest it all. It sounded like an overwrought conspiracy theory. Templars wanting to rule the world. Assassins working under cover of darkness to stop them. “I don’t know about his. What you’re saying sounds insane.”

“To an outsider, it probably does. But, believe me, it’s very real. The Templars have taken many identities in the course of history: knights, priests, bankers, politicians, revolutionaries, and many others, but their goal hasn’t changed much. Again and again, they’ve meddled in world affairs in a bid to control the powers in place. And so we Assassins also continue working to stop them.”

“If this has been going on for almost a millennia, you haven’t been very good at it,” Altair pointed out, not trying to hide the hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Our numbers have always been small. Training an Assassin takes time, and for that reason those of us who become assassins are usually born into the Order. Recruitment isn’t exactly an easy task either. It’s a thankless job, and a dangerous one. The Templars don’t have that problem. Too many people crave power.” Malik ran a hand through his hair and went on, “Still, we do get to recruit some people into our ranks. Shaun and Rebecca both started working with the Order as adults.”

“Stupidest decision of my life too,” Shaun grumbled, but he didn’t sound like he really meant it.

“But, they’re not assassins,” Altair said in an attempt to understand the group’s dynamic.

“No. Rebecca is our resident technology specialist, and Shaun is a historian.”

“A historian?”

“I also serve as tactical analyst, research expert, and liaison agent,” Shaun commented tartly. “I probably do more than anyone else in here.”

“You’re also the grumpiest grump there is, Shaun dear. A true ray of sunshine.” Rebecca walked into the room with a yawn, and smiled when she noticed Altair sitting at the table. “Sorry, I overslept,” she told Malik.

“Well, well. If this isn’t Sleeping Beauty finally deciding to grace us with her presence,” Shaun drawled, which earned him a “screw you,” from Rebecca.

Altair couldn’t quite decide if the two of them hated each other, or simply loved exchanging barbs.

Rebecca made a rude gesture at Shaun’s back and went directly for the coffee. By the time Altair’s attention returned to Malik, the man had produced a thick folder and set it down on the table between them.

“What is that?” Altair asked.

Malik simply nodded toward it, so Altair opened the folder and started to leaf through the documents inside. He was more than a little taken aback to find there everything from his school records to his employment history and social security number, from his juvenile criminal record—which he’d thought had been expunged years ago—to the different sports award he’d gotten throughout his teenage years and early adulthood. Most were for martial arts and boxing, although there was also a mention of his practice of parkour. They even had his complete medical record. How in hell had they gotten their hands on it?

“You know quite a lot about me,” he finally said. 

Malik nodded, unrepentant. “I like to know who I’m dealing with before proposing deals.”

“What deal are you proposing, then? I don’t think I have any skills the Order could truly want.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s all there, in your file.” Malik tapped the folder. “You might not realize it yet, but you have the potential to become an Assassin. So, here’s what I’m offering: train with us and realize that potential. Follow in your father’s footsteps.”

Altair opened his mouth, although he wasn’t quite sure what to make of this proposition—what did one answer to the question “Do you want to learn how to kill people?”—but Shaun cut him off before he could utter a word. “You can’t actually be serious, Malik. Miles would never go for it.”

“I do not answer to William Miles,” Malik replied dryly. “He could barely be bothered to offer assistance to the Levantine Brotherhood when asked. My own superiors, however, have given me the freedom to do what needs to be done to complete my mission.” 

William Miles? Who was William Miles?

“I don’t know if should feel flattered you think I can do this, but I still have to ask. Why? I mean, didn’t you just say that Assassins train all their lives for it? I’m just a normal guy, despite the weird second vision.” 

“In normal circumstances… in _better_ circumstances, you would be right. But unfortunately, we’re overstretched as it is right now, and Assassins with your type of skills are getting all too rare. The Templars have made sure of it.”

“You mean—what did you call it—eagle vision?”

Malik nodded. “A few of the older lineages possess this genetic fluke—Lucy could tell you more about it, she actually studied genetics—that allow them to use Eagle Vision. Those families have always played an important role in the Order, and they were carefully maintained and nurtured throughout the centuries. Ezio and Desmond are descendant of one of these families. So are you.”

“And you?”

Malik smirked. “No, but I’m still the best at what I do.” He grew serious again. “The Templars have known about those lineages for some time now, and they’ve strived to eliminate them all. Unfortunately, they are very close to succeeding.” He sighed. “This is the reason they won’t let you live now that they know of your existence.”

Great. Just _fucking_ great.

“If not for you, they wouldn’t have found me,” Altair groused, and glared at Malik.

Malik only shrugged. “They would probably have discovered your existence at some point anyway. It’s better that we got to you first, don’t you think?”

“Oh, fuck you Malik. I’ve lost absolutely everything because of you. This isn’t my war.”

“Did you really lose so much, though?” Malik shot back, relentless. “You have no living family left. No close friends. You survive working small jobs, but you’ve always been aimless.”

Altair was nearly ready to storm out of the room. And yet he stayed, because Malik was right. He had been all those things, and more.

“What do you say?” Malik waited while Altair pondered his options.

“I’ll try it,” he finally said, then glared at Malik again for good measure. “But that’s all I can promise right now.”

“It’s enough.” Malik got back to his feet. “Now, come with me, novice. Lucy and Desmond are training aboveground and you’ll join them for today.”

Novice? Had Malik just called him _novice_!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I haven't forgotten about this fic, and I got lot in store for Altair and the gang. Right now though, I'm trying to finish up His Guardian, then will be participating in NaNoWriMo all of november, writing an original story of mine. Updates should start again in December (not saying I'll do nothing at all in November in this fic, but I can't promise anything)!


End file.
